The miracle of mould

It sweats a palette of purple stars

to birthmark new-born skies:

each bruise is a pinprick miracle

whose galaxies of dead weight

are spinning dreams from dust –

hooked on air like an addict

or artist – the house is sucked

to a shadow of its former self.

Masterpiece or mould,

it’s difficult to tell until the brick

turns bad like any love bite does.

unpublished poem, © Jade Cuttle 2019, used by permission of the author.

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